Her legs were crossed in the aisle, her hands primly folded in her lap. Her head hung, but her chin did not rest on her chest. Instead her skull bounced around with each bump the bus took like an apple attached to the end of a pipe cleaner. Long strings of drool slipped from her parted mouth and onto her blouse.
"Is she okay?"
A young man in a worn Red Sox hat was asking the bus driver about the young woman. The driver waved his hand at the Sox fan. I couldn't hear if he responded.The young man took his seat all the while shaking his head.
I watched more saliva fall from her face.
The half a dozen passengers on board all looked in her direction from time to time to see her head springing around on her neck.
She was far, far away. Her legs and hands were still crossed when I got off.